


Get Home Safe (You Can’t be Replaced)

by partialconstellations



Series: to feel alive [5]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Jon Snow, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Smut, Hair-pulling, I will not have Robb Stark disrespected in my own home, Implied Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, M/M, One-Sided Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Past Theon Greyjoy/Jon Snow, Past Torture, Period-Typical Homophobia, Political Jon, Size Difference, proceed carefully if you like Daenerys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 00:26:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16964322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partialconstellations/pseuds/partialconstellations
Summary: Jon leaves Winterfell. Starks don't fare well when they travel south. (Or north. Maybe they should just stay home and have a cuppa.)Started as a reading between the lines of S7 but ended up a proper canon divergence.





	1. Dragonstone

**Author's Note:**

> This started life as a reading between the lines of S7, so to speak, but then turned into more of a rewrite. The first chapter takes some liberties with show canon and changes one thing significantly and during writing the rest of the thing I went fuck it, and branched off entirely. It still follows most of Jon's storybeats throughout S7 though.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets a cousin and catches up with Theon. He doesn't punch him even a bit and it's all unexpectedly civil.

In the end, the decision to go to Dragonstone was an easy one to make. He needed the help, the Dragon Queen had… well, dragons. Sansa begged him not to go himself, of course, but he didn’t want to be the kind of man, the kind of _king_ – every time he heard it, thought about it, the title gave him a stab to the heart and wasn’t _that_ just perfect – that made others do the dirty work for him.

And in truth, he needed to get _out_. Winterfell was home, yes, but having sent Tormund away to Eastwatch, with everyone looking at him like he was supposed to know what to do, Sansa hounding him at every opportunity about some important (or trivial) matter or other and Littlefinger _smiling_ at him, just waiting for him to make a mistake, it felt _good_ to leave. Ser Davos was good companionship. The man was calm, quiet most of the time but still told a good story. He appreciated that.

Meeting Tyrion Lannister again was a double-edged sword. He had rather liked the man when they’d met, but his newfound allegiance to this silver queen made Jon careful around him. There was this voice at the back of his head that sounded a lot like Sansa, telling him to be cautious, not to trust anyone, not to reveal too much of his true thoughts. He came here for help, he needed to make them understand what the true enemy was, and he needed to do it in a way that wouldn’t make the Northern lords call for his head once he returned. … He should have sent Sansa.

He had let their guards and Davos talk amongst themselves, only pulling out of his own head when Tyrion mentioned Sansa. “And Sansa, I hear she’s alive and well.”

“She is,” he replied, wondering what he was playing at.

“Does she miss me terribly?” There was a smile in his voice, a jibe.

Jon looked at Tyrion. _If you think you can lay claim to her, Lannister, I will break every bone in your body where you stand._ The thought remained unspoken. He eyed the ramparts, the long drop into the sea. It would be an easy thing to do to drop Tyrion down there. The fall would kill him immediately.

“A sham marriage and unconsummated.”

Oh gods. “I didn’t ask—”

Tyrion interrupted, “Well, it was. It wasn’t. Anyway, she’s much smarter than she lets on.”

Jon looked at him. “She's starting to let on.”

“Good–” He seemed to want to say more but it was Jon who interrupted this time.

“She has been married again.”

Tyrion nodded. “I’ve heard.”

“She has been married again – and widowed, by her own hand. You would do well to remember that,” Jon added, almost as an afterthought.

The threat would have been a better one if he hadn’t immediately thrown himself to the ground once the dragon showed up, he thought to himself later.

 

Meeting the Dragon Queen was another matter entirely. He hadn’t known what to expect, and Tyrion talking about her, of all people, didn’t reassure him. He was taken in by her beauty, yes, only a fool would see her and not acknowledge she was beautiful. But there was that arrogance she held herself with, that feigned innocence that he couldn’t stomach. Naming Torrhen Stark as the last King in the North, completely failing to acknowledge Robb, when his rebellion had nothing to do with her, grated on him.

Her advisor, Missandei of Naath, seemed earnest enough when she spoke about Daenerys Targaryen, but her situation, and by extension the others who followed Daenerys – the Unsullied, the Dothraki, freed slaves – was quite different than the situation they faced now. As far as he saw it, Daenerys wanted to conquer Westeros because she thought it her birthright, not because she wanted to help anyone, making her claims of wanting to break the wheel doubtful at best. These people might follow her willingly but everything in how she handled Jon’s presence told him she didn’t feel the need to apply the same standards to the people of Westeros, the ones she came to rule.

He was mulling this over when he spotted the lone ship in the bay. He could barely make out the sails. “Is that a Greyjoy ship?” The words had left his mouth before he could even think about if they were wise to speak. The Sansa inside his head chastised him.

As he went down to the beach, he tried to place the image Sansa had painted at the front of his mind. That Theon had _not_ killed Bran and Rickon, that he was as much Ramsay’s victim – a survivor – as her, that he had saved her life. The thought of Winterfell being sacked and taken by Ironborn, then burned – scars the castle still bore – their household murdered by Theon’s hand, people he had known growing up, people who had taught him, came unbidden, but it came and it was much, much louder than the ones he tried to push them down with. He had hoped to never see Theon again, to never be confronted with finding out what Jon might do to him. He tried to call his own hands, red with Ramsay Bolton’s blood, to mind. When he’d looked at Sansa then, he was afraid to see fear in her eyes – fear of him, what he had become – but the blank look she had given him was so much worse that it made him stop in his tracks. He had given Ramsay up to her and went to Tormund. He’d barely been able to hold the sobs in until they were safely alone. He tried to recall that blank look in Sansa’s eyes and remember that Ramsay was the one who had put it there, that Ramsay had had Theon for much, much longer than he had her.

Still, the urge to punch Theon at first sight was hard to resist, until he noticed almost immediately that Theon even held himself differently. Fuck. He couldn’t even have the decency to stand like he used to, the arrogant little prick he had grown up with would have made it so much easier to punch him. Instead, Theon’s whole bearing was different. He stood with a hunch, looking smaller than his men, and when he noticed, recognised him, his eyes darted just slightly, looking at the wet sand at their feet. He didn’t move.

Jon took a few steps towards him, consciously unclenching his fists. _He didn’t kill them, he helped Sansa._ He played it over, and over again, in his head, willing himself to believe it.

Theon spoke. “Jon.” Blood rushed to his ears. He only called him by his given name when they were by themselves, shut up in his bastard’s chambers, and usually not even then. “Didn’t know you were here.” He took a few cautious steps towards Jon, eyes still focused on his own feet. He was limping, ever so slightly.

“S-Sansa.” _Don’t you dare._ “Is she alright?”

His arm moved of its own volition, grabbing Theon by the front of his jerkin. It didn’t close around his throat, thank the gods. He didn’t know if he’d be able to stop himself from choking him in time.

“What you did for her,” Jon began quietly, as calm as he managed. _He didn’t kill them, he was tortured until he lost his name. He turned on Robb._ He took a shaking breath, “is the only reason I’m not killing you.”

And Theon still wouldn’t _look_ at him, didn’t even show signs of putting up a fight, just hung there, limp. Jon let go.

Davos spoke up. Jon had been so focused on not killing Theon that he had forgotten there were other people there. That there even was a world outside him and Theon. “We heard your uncle attacked your fleet.” Theon _did_ look Davos in the eye. “We thought you were dead,” Davos continued.

_You should be._

“I should be.”

“Your sister?” Davos asked.

Theon swallowed. Jon watched his throat working, his pulse. “Euron has her.” _Ramsay Bolton took everything._ “I came to ask the queen to help me get her back.”

“The queen is gone,” Jon said sharply.

Theon’s eyes snapped back to him and finally, he looked at Jon. The look he gave him could have belonged to another man entirely. “Where did she go?”

 _To demonstrate she could burn us all once she tires of us_ , is what Jon wanted to say. He was glad when Daenerys’ people took over the conversation.

He managed to leave the beach without killing or punching Theon Greyjoy. It was a start.

 

Jon was out on the battlements, overlooking the sea when Daenerys and the dragons returned.

The large, black one she rode roared as it circled over him, seemingly deciding on a landing spot. He was dismayed when it chose to do so right next to him, making the ground shake with its impact. It opened its jaws and roared in his face, wet dragon spit landing all over him. _So this is how I die. At least there won’t be anything left of me to resurrect this time._ His own calmness surprised him. But instead of eating him, it turned its head – as big as himself – towards its rider, as if to urge her to step off. It even lowered its shoulder and extended a wing to create a ramp. These beasts weren’t simple beasts at all. _They’re intelligent_. The thought came upon him unbidden and it was disconcerting, to say the least.

He missed Ghost.

One of the other dragons, the green one, landed next to him, the ground under his feet quaking as it touched the ground. It was smaller than its brother, and yet, that was little comfort when its … snout? was just as big as himself. It pulled its lip back, revealing a large row of teeth. Jon took a deep breath before pulling off his glove and holding out his hand. He didn’t even think about suppressing the shaking in it. It lowered its head as if inviting him to touch it. And still, its mouth was open, revealing all those _teeth_.

He took another breath to steady himself, hoping he’d still have a hand after this and creeped closer, ever so careful. He imagined the dragon to be hot, it _had_ to be, it could spit _fire_ , but all he felt was the wetness of its mouth under his hands. He cursed the Red Woman and what she had done to him.

Out of the corner of his eye he was able to see Daenerys getting off the other one, the black one she seemed to prefer, and just as soon as it took off, the green one turned to follow it. He was reminded of himself and Robb when they were boys, him always a step behind.

Daenerys joined him, her presence at his side reassuring, yet also worrying. These beasts were intelligent, and they listened to her. They could roast him if he displeased her. She smelled of smoke. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

“That wasn’t the word I was thinking of, but, yes, they are. Gorgeous beasts.”

“They’re not _beasts_ to me.” Her voice hardened. “No matter how big they get, how terrifying to everyone else, they’re my children.” Daenerys turned to look at her three dragons as they flew over Dragonstone in the distance.

“You weren’t gone long,” Jon remarked. Just long enough for him to have to contend himself with Theon Greyjoy again.

Daenerys turned her back to him. “No,” she agreed.

“And?”

“And I have fewer enemies today than I did yesterday.”

Jon paused.

“You’re not sure how you feel about that?”

 “No, I’m not,” he replied, very carefully. _Yes, I am. Burning is a terrible way to die._ The smell of smoke clung to her.

Daenerys turned and started walking towards the castle. He followed.

“How many men did your army kill taking Winterfell back from the Boltons?” she asked.

He didn’t like where this was going. “Thousands.”

“We both want to help people. We can only help them from a position of strength. Sometimes strength is terrible.” Why did she smell so much of smoke, after flying hundreds of leagues? Then she abruptly changed the topic. “When you first came here, Ser Davos said you took a knife in the heart for your people.”

“Ser Davos gets carried away.”

“So it was a figure of speech?” she asked, unconvinced.

Jon didn’t reply. He was glad when the Dothraki joined them with a man with features that somehow looked familiar and took her mind off of him.

 

After he dealt with Daenerys and her … children, he sought Theon out at dinner. He ate alone, not only separated from the other Ironborn men, but separated from other members of the Queen’s council as well. Theon, who had always been Robb’s shadow, and when he hadn’t been, he was always boasting to anyone who would listen.

Theon had never been alone. Lonely, however … Jon knew he had been lonely. It’s what they had in common, why they had turned to each other in their weak moments.

“Come to my chambers later.” Jon didn’t know what he thought he’d get out of the invitation, but it was out there. Maybe he finally wanted to clear the air. Theon and him had been carefully avoiding each other so far. Theon looked as if he would rather jump off the ramparts into the sea.

“I promise I won’t kill you,” Jon added weakly.

Theon slowly nodded acknowledgement.

 

The rap on his door came a very long while after he’d heard the mismatched footsteps in the hall.

“May I come in?” Theon’s voice, yes, but a far cry from the boisterous boy he had known. Theon Greyjoy, erstwhile Prince of the Iron Islands, would have never deigned to knock on the Bastard of Winterfell’s door. Not that he had never been inside his chambers, isolated as they were, he had just let himself in whenever he damn well pleased, as though it was his godsgiven right. The memory of quick fumbles in the dark came unbidden. Jon’s stomach churned.

“Jon? … Your Grace, I mean?” The correction came too quickly.

A lump formed in his throat. “Yeah, come in.”

The door opened just enough to let Theon in, and he just as quickly closed it behind himself. He walked with a hunch to his back now, and a limp. It wasn’t always there, he held himself as straight as he had back in Winterfell, in another life, when he was with his sister’s men. But it was here now. Maybe he didn’t feel the need to pretend in front of Jon. Maybe for the first time in his life. Jon had always been certain at least part of Theon’s behaviour in Winterfell had been an act, to show the Northerners the Ironborn hostage would never be one of them, even though he had spent more of his life in Winterfell than on Pyke. In private, he had behaved differently, less boisterous, with less to prove. Not that he’d ever shown Jon who he truly was. Letting his guard down had always been brought on by Robb.

Theon very obviously tried not to stare at him, keeping his head bowed, eyes to the floor, but he tried to sneak glances at him, obviously unsure how to behave now that their roles were so different than what they had been _before_ – betrayal, torture, death. He started twitching uncomfortably, his hands folded behind his back. He scuffed his boots.

It became painfully obvious Theon wouldn’t do anything of his own volition, neither talk to him or move. Ramsay’s doing? Jon indicated the seat closer by the fire and Theon sat down on the edge of the seat, looking nervous, his eyes not leaving Jon’s face until he sat down himself. He shifted only slightly, his body language all but yelling that he’d be more comfortable standing. Obviously Ramsay Bolton had left more than physical scars on him.

He licked his lips multiple times before he finally spoke. “I heard the Queen let you touch one of her dragons.”

Of course. “I’m still amazed it didn’t devour me on the spot.”

“Those … things are like her children. She wouldn’t just let anyone touch them. She likes you.”

“She has a strange way of showing it, if that’s true.” He opened his arms, to indicate their surroundings. The room was big, and presumably warm, with a bigger bed than he knew what to do with by himself, a nice seating area by the fire and a desk in front of a large window with a magnificent view over the bay. “It’s a nice prison, but a prison nonetheless.”

The irony of talking to Theon, of all people in Westeros, about gilded cages didn’t occur to him until Theon flashed a wry grin at him. He was missing teeth. “It’s how I used to think about Winterfell, about Lord Stark. Then I realised how good I had it, when … well.” He swallowed audibly and held up his gloved right hand, indicating his missing fingers. Theon, who always had been the best archer, the best huntsman out of the three of them, would never shoot a bow again.

Jon honestly didn’t know how to reply to that, so he just stared at Theon, taking him in. He was thin, too thin, all of his muscle gone, mottled scar tissue creeping out of his shirt’s collar. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what Theon would look like without his clothes now. It was hard to reconcile this husk of a man with the cocksure lordling he’d grown up with.

Jon didn’t know what possessed him when he leaned forward, still half-seated, his hand on Theon’s cheek, closing the distance between them, fingers twisting into his hair. Always the hair, Tormund’s voice quietly chuckled in his head. Theon’s lips were chapped, they tasted of salt. Gods, he hated the sea, everything tasted of salt. As he slipped his tongue into Theon’s mouth, he noticed the missing tooth. Or rather, he noticed the absence of a tooth.

Theon hesitantly, but willingly, kissing him back, taking hold of the front of Jon’s shirt and pulling him closer was what made him realise just what he was doing and with whom. He broke their contact, took hold of Theon’s hands which had twisted into his shirt. He subconsciously started rubbing circles on the backs of Theon’s hands, as he had done with Arya and Bran and Rickon when they were small, and had a nightmare. His stomach twisted into an ugly knot. _No, don’t think of them, not when you’re with him._ “I’m … with someone,” he said, his voice apologetic.

“ _You_ were the one who kissed _me_.” Theon was trying to sound indignant, Jon could tell, but Theon’s eyes dropped to the floor immediately. Then, he chuckled. “How the tables have turned. Your Grace.”

“Don’t call me that.” He let go of Theon’s hands, who quickly pulled them towards to himself, the left covering the right in his lap.

“So the rumours about Lord Commander Snow and the wildling bitch are true? Never figured you for one to break your vows, after all the hoopla you made about joining the Night’s Watch and not getting any bastards on any girls.” Theon gave him a pointed look. Apparently Jon wasn’t the only one who was reminded of their past … dalliances, if you could call it that. Mostly, Theon got worked up over something, and substituted Jon for Robb. Why _he_ ever went along with it, why _he_ went to Theon was another matter that he didn’t want to think about.

Jon’s nails dug into his palm as he balled his hands into fists, resisting the urge to punch Theon. The thought of someone, let alone Theon fucking Greyjoy, calling Ygritte a wildling bitch when she had been so much more, was infuriating. If there had been any of the old Theon coming through, that tone of voice he used to use, that Jon hated so much, he couldn’t say if he’d been able to resist. But this was … genuine interest. From Theon fucking Greyjoy. “It … happened. It’s complicated.” He shrugged.

“What’s her name?”

“Tormund.”

That did elicit a laugh, a horrid, broken sound. Nothing like his old laugh. “Still afraid to get a bastard on some poor girl, _King_ Snow?” The sarcasm in his voice was what did it, remind him that there was still at least some measure of _Theon_ in there. As much as he had despised him at times, still did, it was good.

“Fuck off, Theon.”

“Ah, that’s the Jon Snow I remember. Careful, or I might not be able to keep my hands off you again.” There was no malice in his voice, only the words sounding like Theon, but there was a hint of something else entirely, something he couldn’t place. Jon didn’t reply, just glare at him.

“You really are an invert, aren’t you? I honestly thought you only used to do – whatever in seven hells it was we were doing – with me because I annoyed you so much that it got you all hot and bothered and you didn’t know what to do about that.” Theon paused, a self-deprecating look on his face. “I thought Lord Stark had messed you up just as well as me, that all your talk of honour and not wanting to father a bastard yourself was you compensating for your low birth.”

Jon clenched his fist. _His low birth_. Said so easily, so carelessly. And yet, surprisingly, the words stung less now.

“I mean, yes, that is definitely true, you were the worst and I was … well. High strung? I know myself better now. But I like girls, too. Women. And I _also_ didn’t want to father any bastards myself. It’s just … I have Tormund now. I love him. So it doesn’t matter.”

“Drowned fucking god, you really are the only person who can make fucking a wildling sound boring.”

“I can make it even more boring. Him and Sansa get along oddly well and it’s very unsettling. They were talking about the succession in the North before I left.”

Theon snorted. “I’d pay good money to see that. It’s hard to imagine her even talking to a wildling.”

“She’s changed.”

Theon’s entire bearing changed. Where he had relaxed, had been laughing, joking, jibing before, he now hunched into his chair, and when he looked at Jon, he looked troubled, a haunted look to his face. “I know. She’s the only reason I survived that place.”

A thought came to mind. “You know Ramsay Bolton is dead, right?” he asked quietly, watching Theon’s body language.

“I’ve heard rumour you kicked his face in until there was nothing left. Would give anything to have seen it, seen his body. As it is, it’s hard to not believe that he is not just going to come and get me one day. Make me his again.” His mangled hand moved, opening and closing a fist. There was just the slightest bit of a shake in there.

“I did, but it was Sansa who killed him.”

Theon quirked his eyebrow, disbelief written plainly on his face. “Oh?”

“Fed him to his hounds and watched.” The memory was … disturbing. He knew when he’d handed Ramsay over to her that he wouldn’t die quickly, or even cleanly, but the calm serenity with which Sansa had left the kennels would haunt him forever.

Once he’d been able to breathe again, he had left Tormund in the baths to return to the kennels and wait outside, still covered in blood, mud and shit, until Tormund joined him, washed and smelling of lavender – something he would have teased him mercilessly for on another day – and wordlessly handed him a plate of food, which he had devoured obediently. They waited in exhausted silence until Sansa came out, looked at them with this calm expression, her hands folded neatly in front of her, and said, “It’s done.” Then she had wrinkled her nose at Jon. “You need a bath.”

“Hah,” the sound was so abrupt that Jon startled. “Good. Good for her.”

Silence settled between them, Theon’s body language becoming less rigid. “Why did you want to see me?” he asked suddenly.

“I wanted to tell you … it’s not my place to forgive you for all of it.” He took a deep breath, looking at Theon, who just watched him. “But what I can forgive, I do.”

He saw Theon’s man’s apple bobbing as he tried to swallow. “I deserted Robb.”

“Aye, you did. And I forgive you for it. You’ve endured enough.”

“Thank you.” Theon looked up at him, then, and he thought he saw longing in his eyes.

“I meant it when I said I was with Tormund,” he added calmly.

“Aye. I should leave.” When he reached the door, he put on a smirk, one that closely resembled his old one, if you squinted. “I can’t believe you came back from the Night’s Watch prettier than when you left. The beard suits you.”

“Don’t compliment me. Just be the prick I used to know.”

Theon left, and with it, he left Jon to stew with his own thoughts. He didn’t move until his cock went down of its own volition. He cursed himself. Theon Turncloak. Theon fucking Greyjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so three things:  
> First, I was debating myself to finish this with the conversation between Jon and Gendry before they leave for the wight hunt to connect the first to the third chapter, but it wouldn't have added anything significant to the scene as was shown on the show, so I cut it.  
> Second, I also felt that focusing on Theon and Jon was more important, because I a) have a soft spot in my heart for this pairing and b) I have a soft spot for Theon, period and, IMO, his character development was basically the only thing S7 did right.  
> Third, I used the term "invert" to refer to homsexual men because I've seen it done in other GoT fic, didn't know the term and did some googling and then simply couldn't resist using it for a single stupid joke I put in the last chapter. So enjoy that when we get to it.
> 
> NEXT: mostly "I missed you" PWP


	2. Eastwatch-by-the-Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovers reunite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I lied about this chapter being just PWP, oops, nobody is surprised.

They reached Eastwatch-by-the-Sea at dusk. Jon had never seen the Night Watch’s port in the flesh, as it were, and the stories he’d heard never came close to describing it. It was an imposing fortress, especially approached from seaside. The port itself was closed, the raised boom blocking the castle’s harbour where the garrison got its supplies delivered, so Davos sailed around, and they made landfall by boat on the beach instead.

As they approached, he judged that only a quarter of the castle’s lanterns were lit, and he couldn’t tell whether that was a good or a bad sign. Next to him, Gendry stood rooted in place, slowly letting his head roll back to take it all in. He let out a low breath. “Damn.”

“Welcome to the Wall,” Jon said, clapping him on the back, stopping himself to let it sink in. The fortress, while impressive in size, was absolutely dwarfed by the Wall. The air here was different than at Castle Black, cleaner, more like it had been north of the Wall. He’d almost like it if it weren’t for all this salt in the air. “We might have some time to go up, if you’re interested. We’re not leaving until first light tomorrow.”

“How do you even climb that?”

“Here, stairs. Lots of ‘em. Ask the garrison leader – big, redheaded man – about climbing it from the other side some time. I almost fell off.”

Davos let out an amused snort and started up the beach, towards the castle.

 

They were greeted by unfamiliar faces and at least four nocked arrows, on the walls as well as behind the portcullis. Both men manning the portcullis – one Free Folk, the other Night’s Watch – looked at them mistrustful. It took Jon asking for Tormund by name to let them in. Good. They were cautious.

Their group was let in and bid to wait in the courtyard, while someone was sent for Tormund. Arrows were still trained on them, from the walls. The two men with them had their hands on their sword pommels.

“Do they know we’re not the enemy?” Gendry asked. He sounded very uncomfortable.

“It never hurts to be careful,” Davos replied. “If they were under orders to kill, they would have already. It’s a show of force.”

Jon scanned the courtyard, the fortifications. There were spearwives here mixed in with the Free Folk men as well as the Watch. Also good. It meant they trained together, learning from each other. Free Folk furs outnumbered the black of the Watch ten to one.

Tormund let out a loud “whoop,” and took the stairs down two steps at a time to embrace Jon in a big, crushing hug that forced all the air from his lungs. As Tormund leaned in, Jon took a step back and apologetically let go. “Not here,” he whispered. _Later_ , he mouthed.

“I’m not assigning you different quarters for show, we’re shit at cleaning up. Just so you’re aware,” Tormund replied.

Jon let out a stifled laugh. “Alright,” he murmured.

As he stepped back, he just caught Davos carefully looking away, his beard crinkling just so, as if he were smiling. _He_ knew. Jorah Mormont had his eyes fixed on them, but he tried to tell himself that they weren’t _that_ obvious. Gendry was still staring at one of the archers; a young woman, barely more than a girl, wide-legged stance, the bowstring relaxed, arrow held between her fingers, the same way Ygritte held hers. Different than the grip they had been taught at Winterfell. She would be able to draw it to full strength within a second. She looked like she could hold that stance for hours. She probably could. Her expression was a lopsided grin.

 “Can you do something about those?” Jon vaguely pointed in the direction of the archers.

“Oh, right,” Tormund said, still grinning. He raised his voice, “Stand down.” Both Free Folk and Night’s Watch calmly relaxed their bowstrings. Arrows went back into quivers with a practiced ease that Jon didn’t remember from the drills at Castle Black.

“Looks like you’d have made a good Lord Commander yourself,” Jon teased.

“Oh, fuck off.” Tormund rolled his eyes. He gestured towards the castle’s main entrance, for the rest of Jon’s companions to see. “Let’s get inside.”

Before he entered with them, Tormund turned around and looked at the woman, who still wore that grin, as though she knew everything. It looked vaguely familiar. “You have defence command for the night.”

She calmly rested her right hand on a dagger strapped to her belt and threw him a mocking salute with the left. _Shit._

“That’s your daughter,” Jon said as they entered the hall. Tormund nodded wordlessly, gesturing at a man clad in black to bring them drinks and food. “ _Why_ is she here?” he asked, stomping the snow off his feet as he followed Tormund inside.

“She is old enough. She needs to learn, if we’re to survive the Night King.”

“This is the first line of defence, Tormund,” Jon pointed out quietly. He hadn’t made the decision to send Tormund here lightly, but he didn’t trust anyone else enough to take command here. That he now also needlessly endangered his daughter … the thought didn’t sit well.

“You sent _me_ here,” Tormund replied. “Sometimes, we have to do things we don’t want to do. Because it’s the _right thing to do_.”

“Don’t use my own words against me.” They had stopped in front of the food hall that the rest of Jon’s group had already filed in, sitting as close as humanly possible to the fire, including Mormont. It seemed his exile had sapped the Northern resistance to the cold right out of him. It wasn’t even winter yet.

“But they’re such _pretty_ words.” A predatory grin spread across his face. “Whatever you’re doing here, it will have to wait until I’ve had my way with you.”

A shiver ran down Jon’s spine. He quickly looked away from Tormund. He needed to _focus_ , first.

“Your _Grace_ ,” came Davos’ voice, calmly but firmly. He sounded more like an exasperated father scolding a wayward son rather than an advisor addressing his king.

“Hold that thought,” Jon quietly said to Tormund, quickly brushing his hand against Tormund’s arm, and joined the others.

“Your Grace.” Tormund chuckled as he followed.

 

Tormund actually _kicked_ the door to his quarters closed behind them. It was just as well, because immediately, Jon used his entire body to push Tormund up against the next wall, hungrily seeking his mouth with his own. Tormund happily let himself be steered up against the wall, groaning as his back hit it. Their teeth clashed together uncomfortably when he did. Jon had to strain to reach, because Tormund wasn’t making any concessions today, comfortably leaning back against the wall, enveloping Jon with his arms. Tormund was lazily kissing him back and Jon let out a frustrated huff at having to do all the work and bit at his lip, pulling it into his mouth. Provoking.

Tormund’s hands came up immediately, tangling in Jon’s hair, but he didn’t say anything. Not yet. Just a low, warning growl in the back of his throat, which, aye, didn’t help. At all.

“Would you … just.” Jon huffed, gesturing frustratedly towards Tormund’s face. He was still leaning into him, which made the angle all the more awkward, and the fact that Tormund’s erection was poking him in the abdomen didn’t help either.

“Yes?” Tormund had the _gall_ to grin down at him, lazily tugging at Jon’s hair, his other hand resting on his cheek. His thumb was stroking the corner of his mouth. Jon resisted the urge to chase after it with his mouth. He felt too needy and Tormund was altogether too relaxed, especially after the way he’d been staring at him throughout the entire meeting. He had practically _felt_ him undressing him with his eyes.

His hand curled into Tormund’s beard. It was odd, the way they both liked to focus on each other’s hair and beard. Jon liked having his hair pulled, there was no denying it, and he _also_ liked doing the pulling, but there was something about just the feeling of touching the other man’s face, to make himself aware of the difference to touching a woman. Well, to the one woman he had touched. And sometimes, he just wanted to bury his hands in Tormund’s beard, feel the coarseness of it, just because it was so entirely _Tormund_. Tormund admitted that he liked it when Jon started growing his beard properly, too, even though he didn’t fixate on it the way Jon tended to do. “Get down here,” Jon finally said, pulling Tormund’s shirt down to brush his collarbone with his lips, perhaps to convince him to make the rest of himself more easily available. “My neck hurts.”

“No. I think His Grace would look very good on his knees.” Tormund bent down to carefully nip at Jon’s lips before pulling even further back. If he wanted to kiss him now, he would have to get up to the tip of his toes. As Jon looked up, considering, Tormund’s pupils were dilated with lust. A hand landed on his shoulder, not pushing him down, just resting there, which made this feel all the more … lewd. His ears tingled all of a sudden.

Jon sighed. “Is this where you finally make some more fun of me for calling you “Your Grace” that one time?” Honestly, it had been literal years.

“Maybe.” Tormund’s shit-eating grin said “absolutely.” The grip on Jon’s shoulder tightened, just that little bit, asking permission.

Jon accepted that it would be one of _those_ nights before obediently sinking to his knees, pretending that it was the pressure on his shoulder that did it, looking up at Tormund as he did so, not breaking eye contact. Tormund’s eyes followed him hungrily. The floor was hard cobblestone and for once, he was thankful he couldn’t feel the cold that would have otherwise been seeping down to his bones before long. He spread his legs just a little, to make sure he could hold the position for a while without cramping.

Tormund’s other hand found its way back to the back of his head, removing the hair tie before grabbing his hair at the root, and giving it an experimental tug, changing his grip. To his embarrassment, Jon let out a moan. “Always the hair,” Tormund chuckled, with an amount of self-satisfaction that was frankly undeserved. Really, this was not hard to learn about him and he had known about it for _years_. He pulled again, harder now that his grip was settled.

Unbidden, the memory of Theon’s lips on his on Dragonstone came to Jon, which he vehemently pushed back down. This was neither time nor place and besides, nothing had _happened_. He leaned closer into Tormund, closer into the heat he was giving off. He hadn’t even realised how much he’d missed the simple thing of sharing his body heat. Feeling it.

“Now, Your Grace,” Tormund murmured, voice low, the hand on Jon’s shoulder tightening again, not loosening it again this time. “Be a good boy.” He used the leverage he had to pull him towards himself, so that his head was now right next to Tormund’s crotch.

Jon straightened his back, looking up at Tormund, trying to suss out his mood. His hands went to his breeches, at eye level on his knees. The laces were crude, easily opened, despite the hardness of Tormund’s cock straining against them. He didn’t pull them down, just freed his cock, worked his right hand into them, to brush against his balls.

Jon grinned as a curse left Tormund’s mouth and without further ado licked a broad stripe against the underside of his cock. Tormund moaned. “You’ve been gone too long.” His fingers twisted into Jon’s hair.

Jon grinned, licking his own lips before enveloping the head of Tormund’s cock with them, brushing his lips against it, licking across the slit already leaking pre-cum. It _had_ been long. Your own hand was fine and all, but a willing mouth on your cock would always beat it. So he tried to take it slowly, prolong the moment, because he had a feeling it wouldn’t take much otherwise. Tormund’s breath was already coming faster. He sucked further down, gaining another moan. He loved knowing that he was the reason for someone else’s pleasure and could feel his own cock stirring. He pulled back to look at Tormund from under his eyelashes and Tormund involuntarily thrusted into his mouth. “Fuck, Jon.” Jon had half-expected it, but he still gagged a little around it until he adjusted. He must be a sight. On his knees, cheeks flushed, mouth filled with cock, eagerly sucking him down.

“Wait,” Tormund interrupted suddenly, obviously struggling to regain his composure. The hand that was still in Jon’s hair carefully pulled him back. Jon’s mouth pulled off his cock with an obscene pop, a string of saliva connecting it to his mouth. “What,” he said, slightly annoyed. He thought he had been doing fantastically.

Tormund padded over to the bed with uncertain steps and pulled a pillow off it. He threw it at Jon, just barely missing his head. The cheerful smile on his face clearly said he’d done it on purpose.

“Arse,” Jon said, not quite managing to not make it sound like a term of endearment, grabbing at the pillow.

“Shut up and kneel on that. Else you’re going to be stiff all over tomorrow.”

“Now you care,” Jon complained, but did as he was told, carefully settling himself on the pillow before taking Tormund’s cock back into his mouth without preamble, pressing his tongue flat against the underside of it, following the vein there, back as far as he could without choking, then rolling his tongue back.

And Tormund just didn’t … move. He just stood there, his cock in Jon’s mouth, the hand back on the back of his head, but not even providing pressure. Unbelievable. He looked up at Tormund, trying to look annoyed, but all he got in reply was a smirk. “If all your lords could see their king now, kneeling for a _wildling_ , sucking his cock, like a good little wife.” Jon felt the urge to correct him, that a good highborn wife wasn’t supposed to suck her husband’s cock, but at that moment, Tormund finally tightened the grip on the back of his head and pushed him down. All thought left his head.

Jon tried to relax his throat, to take as much as he could, but that, he’d never been good at. He tapped at Tormund’s hip, who pulled back enough to give him room to breathe. Jon took the opportunity to slide two fingers into his own mouth alongside, coating them with spit.

As he slowly moved his head, flicking his tongue against Tormund’s cock, he slipped his hand round, giving his cheek a squeeze before questioningly probing at Tormund’s entrance with a finger. He looked up to check they were on the same page. He was certain there was oil somewhere close to the bed, but frankly, he wasn’t in the mood to interrupt _again_ if he didn’t have to. Thankfully, Tormund nodded, jaw slack, pupils blown wide. He looked like he wasn’t too far off.

As he sucked down on Tormund’s cock, his mouth feeling blessedly full, he slowly pushed a finger into Tormund’s hole. It felt too dry, and he was about to pull back, but something must have tipped him off. “Don’t you dare pull out,” Tormund said through gritted teeth, putting more pressure on the back of his head.

Jon hummed agreement around Tormund’s cock, and carefully went back to stretching his hole carefully with that single finger. Once fully sheathed, he crooked his finger, rolled his tongue against Tormund’s cock and was just starting to get ready to pump, but before he even had the chance to, Tormund’s cock was pumping seed down his throat. Jon pulled back too early, the rest landing on his lips and chin. “Fuck,” Tormund exhaled, his breath hitching. “That mouth was made for sucking cock.”

“A little warning would have been nice,” he said accusingly, brushing the back of his hand against his mouth, while looking up and throwing him what he thought, _hoped_ was a dirty look.

That self-satisfied smirk was back on Tormund’s face. Instead of replying, he pulled his hand back and rubbed his thumb across Jon’s lips, smearing his spilled seed over them. Jon slowly got up, gingerly stretching his legs a little before grabbing the front of Tormund’s shirt and pulling him down. This time, Tormund didn’t resist. He crashed their mouths together, forcing his tongue in, giving Tormund a taste of his own seed.

When they broke the kiss to catch their breaths, Jon smirked against Tormund’s lips. “Your _king_ has further need of you.”

“Really?” Tormund said, his voice halfway between exasperation and arousal. “You’re still going with that?”

“Finish what _you_ started, Tormund,” he replied coolly, his hands still on Tormund’s chest, bodily hauling him towards the bed. It really was a good thing Tormund was so pliable. He never would be able to manoeuvre him like that if he wasn’t up for it. They barely made it to the bed.

 

After an all too short night, they were woken by a knock on the door. Tormund grumbled, tightening his grip around Jon’s stomach. “Dawn is approaching,” a female voice said, and Jon thought he heard a hint of amusement colouring her words.

Jon cast a worried look at the door, but it remained closed. “Does _everyone_ here know what’s going on?” he asked, exasperated. His hand found Tormund’s, covering it with his own.

“The Free Folk do,” Tormund replied sleepily. “They think it’s why you gave us all this land.” He shrugged. The movement felt odd against his back. “I told them not to tell the Crows because your people are weird.”

“In those words?”

Tormund grinned against his neck, placing a kiss just where his spine and neck connected. “In exactly those words.”

Jon sighed. “I wish it could be different.”

“So do I, but I’ll take what I can get.” They fell quiet for a moment, just enjoying each other’s company without anyone else around, just for a little while longer before the weight of responsibility came crashing down on them again. “I don’t want you to go back south to see some queen,” Tormund finally said quietly. He pressed another kiss against the back of Jon’s neck.

“Neither do I,” Jon agreed. “But I need to.” He turned around to face Tormund, looked him in the eye before placing a kiss to Tormund’s jaw, relishing the feel of his beard against his lips one last time, before pulling back apologetically. “Come on. We’ve got a wight to catch.”

“We’re all going to die,” Tormund said cheerfully as he got up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this took a bit longer than expected. I set myself the challenge of writing a blowjob, which I’d never done before (at least as far as I can recall but I have a bad memory, so who even know), so I’ve been dithering back and forth on this one.
> 
> Also, this chapter is a late addition to this whole thing, I originally planned to skip straight to our boys trolling Gendry. Then I thought, "welllll, they’re not going to not have a messy reunion, are they" and my excellent placeholder in the doc was just REUNION SEX.
> 
> Alsoalso, I don’t know why I started writing Jon as lowkey hating the sea, I live in a coastal town and it really is quite lovely. But sometimes a little salty.


	3. Beyond the Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon goes wight-catching, Tormund thinks it's a stupid idea but is glad to have his boyfriend back, Gendry has no idea what's happening.

If Tormund had a problem with how easily Jon got along with the new lad – Gendry, he reminded himself – he tried not to show it.

In truth, he had been ecstatic when Jon had shown up in Eastwatch – they hadn’t seen each other in months and sometimes he regretted not learning to read and write when Sansa had bothered him about it – and almost hadn’t minded the purpose of this particular visit. “Almost” being the key word here, because of course Jon had decided it was a good idea to catch a wight to show to some Southern queen. It was so absolutely, typically, stupidly _him_ that he couldn’t even get mad. A lot.

The fact that they took the fire lord-worshipping idiots that had shown up at their door with them also almost didn’t bother him. He didn’t trust them as far as he could throw them, but at least they would be able to make a fire. Jon still hadn’t learned to dress properly for the cold he didn’t feel anymore. Tormund had to insist he put on additional layers before they left on this particular idiocy of a journey. He would just as likely freeze to death as being killed by an army of frozen dead.

“What’s got your knickers in a bunch?” Jon asked, catching up with him, trying to match his pace. His breath came out in a white fog, so at least he should be aware that it was cold, even if he didn’t feel it. It didn’t do much to calm Tormund’s nerves.

“How much do you know about him?” Tormund gestured with his head towards Gendry, who was trudging along in front of them, alone for the moment. He was obviously miserable. His arms were crossed in front of his body, his back hunched and he was visibly shivering.

Jon shrugged. “He’s the bastard son of my father’s friend, King Robert. Seems nice, we talked a bit on the ship here. Probably a little too eager to get himself killed up here.”

“Oh?” Tormund raised his eyebrows while just looking at him. “Sounds a little like someone else I know.”

“Don’t you start,” Jon warned him before catching up with Gendry, who still looked absolutely miserable. “You alright?”

Tormund followed. He wanted to pretend that he stuck to Jon like a particularly annoying child because he’d missed him and he was worried about him but there was this knot deep down in his stomach he didn’t like.

“Never been North before?” Jon asked.

Gendry looked at him, eyes wide, the snow reflecting in them. “Never seen snow before.”

Tormund wondered what that must be like, the lands not being covered in snow all the time. The largest difference between summer and winter the further north you went was in the amount of snow, not whether there was any. But then again, there was something nice, being out of so-called “civilisation” again. He took a deep breath. “Beautiful, eh? I can breathe again. Down South the air smells like pig shit.”

“You’ve never been down South,” replied Jon, without any venom behind the words.

He replied, “I’ve been to Winterfell,” mostly to wind Jon up. It sort of worked. The argument was mostly to feel closer to Jon again, to bridge the months they’d spent apart.

“That’s the North.”

Tormund blew a raspberry, summing up his opinion about the Northmen south of the Wall quite succinctly.

He’d got so caught up in the familiarity of it all, reconnecting with Jon again through their stupid argument, that he’d almost forgotten Gendry was still there until he spoke up, “How’d you live up here? How’d you keep your balls from freezing off?”

Tormund grinned. He could almost feel Jon stiffening between them, in anticipation of a horrible joke. Who was he to disappoint him? “Got to keep moving, that’s the secret. Walking’s good, fighting’s better.” He pointedly did not look at Jon. “Fucking’s best.”

“There’s not a living woman within a hundred miles of here.” Jon _did_ look at Tormund.

“We’ll have to make do with what we’ve got.” Tormund looked over at Gendry, past Jon. Jon, too, looked at Gendry and a slow grin made its way across his face. The look on Gendry’s face could best be described as complete shock. He walked more slowly and fell back.

 “This one’s maybe not so smart.”

“Davos says he’s a strong fighter,” Jon replied, after little consideration.

“Good. That’s more important than being smart. Smart people don’t come up here looking for the dead.” Jon looked at him. Tormund looked back, daring him to protest.

There was none, so Tormund changed the topic. If he couldn’t wind Jon up, he at least might get some information. “So, you’ve met this Dragon Queen, huh. … And?”

“And she’ll only fight beside us if I bend the knee.” Jon sounded frustrated.

“You spent too much time with the Free Folk. Now you don’t like kneeling.” Despite evidence to the contrary last night. The silence stretched uncomfortably between them with words unsaid. Gods, it had been too long since they regularly spent their nights together. He continued, “Mance Rayder was a great man, a proud man, the King-Beyond-The-Wall who never bent the knee. How many of his people died for his pride?”

Jon fell quiet, clearly mulling the words over in his head.

 

\--

 

“You didn’t have to be so mean to Gendry. He’s Southern, his gods are not ours.” Jon said, walking closer towards Tormund, dropping their conversation from before. He didn’t want to have to think about Daenerys Targaryen’s ego for a while.

“If the lad can’t understand a little fun, his life will be short _and_ grim. At least now I know you two weren’t buggering while I sat in that castle day in, day out, waiting to get eaten.”

“Wait. You honestly thought … me and Gendry?”

“You seemed awfully familiar.” Tormund shrugged. “Men get lonely.”

“You were _jealous_?”

“If that’s what you call it.”

Jon looked back at their companions, men he barely knew, before he decided it didn’t matter, there was a good chance they’d all die anyway and crept closer to Tormund, affecting a shiver, before slipping his gloved hand into Tormund’s. Tormund looked at him, puzzled, then pulled him closer towards him, to put both their hands into his pocket.

“I _should_ probably tell you something, though.” Gods be good, his stomach actually felt queasy.

Tormund groaned. “We didn’t actually talk about … other people.” His grip tightened on his hand nonetheless.

“Hush, I didn’t actually _do_ anything, aside from an unfortunate kiss. Did Sansa ever tell you anything about Theon Greyjoy?”

“She did. But so did you. Did you hit your head down south?” Tormund cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, but I only knew him _before_. She actually spent time with him when Ramsay Bolton got their hands on both of them.” He let that sentence fill the air between them, the implications weighing heavy between them.

Finally, Tormund spoke. “What is this about?”

“He was on Dragonstone, pledged his … no, that’s not right. Him and his sister pledged _her_ ships to Daenerys. I wish I could have killed him for … everything I thought he’d done. But it’s almost as if he’s playing a part now, trying his damnedest to be himself, but it seems like an act. More than he did when we were young, I mean.”

“When you were young? That is a tall order. You’re still an infant, King Crow,” Tormund teased.

“Shut up, old man.”

“Before everything changed, before I joined the Night’s Watch, we …” He took a heavy breath. Might as well put it all out there. At least Tormund didn’t seem mad, which had been his biggest concern. “I’m sure I was just a substitute for my brother, he was always following Robb around, but couldn’t have him, so I was the next best thing. But still. Theon and I.” He swallowed. “Have a history.”

“I didn’t expect you to be a maiden when we first fucked, you know. You’re allowed to have a past.”

“I’m just saying that seeing him again, I was tempted. He used to _infuriate_ me and still we did … things.”

“So? So do I, I’m sure, and we do plenty of _things_.” Tormund chuckled. “You certainly infuriate me.”

“It’s different,” Jon replied fondly, tightening his grip on Tormund’s hand as best he could with two layers of clothing separating them.

“What you’re telling me is that you saw someone you used to know years ago, he changed, you were lonely and didn’t do anything about it and now you have a bad conscience?”

“I mean, if you say it like that, it sounds. Lame.”

“You have a fucked up view of the world, if _that_ is what’s got _your_ knickers in a bunch.”

“You believe me? You’re not mad?”

“I trust you,” Tormund replied and walked on as if that was the end of the matter.

Jon struggled to catch up with him. “That’s it?”

“Do you want me to cry about something that didn’t even happen?”

“It just felt … wrong.”

“That’s what love does to you, idiot.” Tormund sounded fond.  
 

They stopped for the night when darkness fell. Jon shuddered when he saw Dondarrion light a fire just using his blood. It just reminded him how wrong _he_ himself was, neither feeling cold nor heat. He wondered whether he should ask him about how it felt to him, this life after death. Yet, he dreaded the answer, dreaded that they would be too similar.

Tormund sat down next to him, after parting with the Hound. “Copper for your thoughts?” he said, handing him a piece of dried jerky.

Jon looked at him. “Where did you learn that? That can’t be something the Free Folk say.”

Tormund shrugged. “I listen. Did I use it wrong?” He looked down at the jerky Jon was holding. “Eat.”

Jon obeyed, if only so that he could take some time to mull over an answer to Tormund’s question. Then he just shrugged and nodded in Dondarrion’s direction. “He was also brought back by a red priest. It made me wonder about … things. Myself, how wrong _I_ am.”

“You’re not wrong.” It was a rehash of an old argument, and it was just like Jon to get broody in the middle of a daft plan he’d come up with in the first place. “And you’re much prettier. Even though I’d prefer it if you could light a fire with your hand instead of forgetting to wear weather-appropriate clothes. Seems like he lucked out in that department.” Tormund suppressed a shudder and moved closer to Jon.

They quietly finished their food, a bit apart from the rest of the group. Jon volunteered them for the first watch. “I don’t sleep much anymore, anyway,” he explained, looking bashful.

“Isn’t that the truth,” Tormund sighed. He had Jon’s elbow in his side before he even noticed that he had slipped up. Luckily, he was wearing about three layers of clothes, so it wasn’t like he felt anything but a slight, sudden pressure.

Mormont looked down at him. “Just make sure you actually get some watching done.” The tone in his voice seemed to be more venomous than was strictly necessary and Tormund was already halfway up, ready to bash his head in, when Jon tugged, still seated, at his wrist. He was exhausted by this whole thing. Hiding for _years_. It just wasn’t in his nature. Trust the Southerners to complicate everything.

“It’s alright,” Jon said quietly, locking eyes with Mormont, who almost looked relieved and nodded at Jon, before turning around and sitting back down. The others huddled together around the fire to get some sleep and warmth, while Jon and Tormund headed off for their watch. Tormund stopped to get a branch out of the fire and some kindling for a smaller fire.

 

“What’s his deal?” Tormund asked when they headed to an outcropping that was at least a little elevated. They had stopped in a natural narrow pass for the night, so at least the directions trouble could come from were limited.

“I’m pretty sure he thought I want to sleep with Daenerys Targaryen and saw me as competition.” Jon shrugged.

Tormund snorted. “Well, then. He going to be a problem?”

“I doubt it. He’s Northern. And I think we’ve managed to convince him that I’m not any kind of competition for her affections,” he rolled his eyes as he said that, “so that should be that.”

“You could, if you wanted to.” Tormund said quietly.

When did this get so complicated, Jon asked himself. He wanted to blame Theon, but that would be unfair. This was something else and he couldn’t quite make sense of it. “I don’t want to and I’m not going to, is my point,” he tried.

Tormund huffed, dropping the subject for the moment, even though he didn’t seem convinced.

They huddled together by the fire Tormund had stoked. Jon at least tried to make an effort to keep warm, even though there was this morbid sort of curiosity lurking beneath the surface what would happen if he really didn’t try to keep warm anymore. Dying would almost be a relief, a sign that he was still human, at least. Not that he’d have much to gain by that point.

“You _were_ jealous, before, though,” Jon said seemingly out of nowhere, after they had settled into the quietness, looking out into the snowed-in pass.

“What are you on about _now_?” Tormund asked, incomprehension clear on his face.

“Gendry. And Theon, I suppose.”

“He’s a handsome lad,” Tormund shrugged. “And as I said, men get lonely. Nothing wrong with that.”

Jon wrinkled his nose. “You think so? That he’s handsome?”

“You don’t?”

Jon made a non-committal noise. “Maybe you just like ‘em young.”

That earned him a good-natured swat to the back of the head. “Shut up, boy.” Despite this, Tormund still seemed too stiff to him, like he was trying too hard to hide something. He didn’t like it and he didn’t want to be part of it.

“So, you were jealous but then immediately left off after I told you about Theon and told me you trusted me. Speak your mind, for the gods’ sake. Because I don’t understand what the issue seems to be right now.”

“Listen, it’s stupid. I suppose I just want you to myself.”

 “So all of this has been … what, insecurity? That I’m not … yours?”

“No.” Tormund looked away.

Jon bumped his shoulder with his own. “Don’t lie to me,” he said softly. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Tormund huffed, still not looking at him. “Fine. Yes. I told you, it’s stupid.”

Jon breathed a sigh of relief and put his hand on Tormund’s neck, pulling him closer to himself. “It’s _not_. I thought it went without saying.”

Tormund pulled a face. “Just … pretend I’m stupid.”

Jon rested his chin on Tormund’s shoulder. “Tormund. I don’t want to be with anyone but you. If we came across a heart tree, I’d marry you without any second thoughts.”

“Fuck.” Tormund turned into him, leaning his forehead against Jon’s own. “We might die soon and this is what you tell me? _Now_?”

Instead of replying, Jon pulled him closer and captured Tormund’s mouth with his. It was hunger, frustration, relief, all rolled into one.

“We’re supposed to _watch_ ,” Tormund pointed out when they came up for air. His flushed cheeks clashed magnificently with his hair.

Jon snorted. “Right. Time for you to turn around then.”

“Oh?” Tormund cocked an eyebrow and looked at Jon with renewed interest.

“Come on. You owe me for last night.”

“Like you minded.” Tormund’s words were those of protest but he was already in the process of turning around and getting on his knees, presenting his backside to Jon. He even spread his knees a little further than could strictly be comfortable so Jon would be able to reach.

Jon gave him a light smack on the arse. “Now, eyes on the pass. We’re _watching_.”

Tormund snorted, but obeyed.

 

\--

 

After all of that, finally putting their relationship on the table, finally fully committing to each other, Jon went and did something incredibly fucking stupid and died on him. Again.

Seeing Jon go under and then _leaving_ him was the hardest thing he’d ever done. And that fucking undead idiot wouldn’t even notice that he was going to die of hypothermia. _Fuck._

He would have jumped off the dragon if there hadn’t been that fucking responsibility nagging him. Hard as it was, he still had other things, other _people_ he was responsible for. There weren’t only his own daughters (they’re almost grown, they can take care of themselves, a voice in the back of his head said. They have their mother.), there were also Karsi’s daughters. His own people. Jon’s sister, who he was absurdly fond of. If Jon was going to die, she’d need all the support she could get.

When he saw the lone rider approach, he didn’t even _dare_ to hope. After he not only got his hope back, he swore to _never_ leave him alone again. Which was how he ended up on a fucking boat headed south. So very south. _Fuck._

Also, he wasn’t sure how to tell the nice lady with the giant fire-breathing pets who also saved their collective hides that she wasn’t going to get his man. _Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, first, sorry for the delay and also sorry, but the next chapter could be a while, because I haven’t even started on the boat scenes aside from a basic outline/idea on what I want to do since I can barely recall them and am a bit too stressed to concentrate on rewatching them, sorry in advance about that. Also, it didn’t help that I just banged out 20k of another thing that most likely will never see the light of day instead of doing the final edit of this, because procrastination.  
> (I have some uni exams in the middle of February, I’ll try to get the next chapter done fairly quickly afterwards.)  
> I also don’t mean for Gendry (or Jorah, for that matter, but he’s got a whole different set of issues) to come off as overly homophobic, just unused/confused by the whole thing, which then gets interpreted differently by the POV characters.  
> ALSO, writing the Jon thinking about Dondarrion bit just reminded me how upset I still am the show cut Lady Stoneheart. UGH, that would have been one hell of a team-up.


	4. The Narrow Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon declines an offer but swears fealty nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In celebration of the trailer finally dropping/OUR BOY being confirmed alive for now, have an update! (I was putting on the finishing touches as it dropped, so let’s pretend I PLANNED THIS.) In which I put both boat scenes together (sorta) for convenience (sorta), sue me

When Jon woke, it was to the sway of a ship. He barely remembered getting back to Eastwatch, but it appeared he did. When he tried to move, everything hurt. He supposed he should count himself lucky, but the ache in all his bones, combined with the feeling of sick coming up, he didn’t feel particularly so. “Finally,” Tormund’s gruff voice said at his side, and he felt a large hand squeezing his own. “You all there?”

“I’m going to be sick,” was Jon’s reply and Tormund produced a bucket from the bedside just fast enough.

When _that_ business was done, Tormund gave him a short summary of what had happened. Daenerys had seemed reluctant to take Tormund with them, but he had held firm against her and in the end, there wasn’t really much she could have done to stop him. Tormund was stubborn that way. He’d left command of Eastwatch to Cotter Pyke, the officer of the Watch who’d only grudgingly given up his command to Tormund when Jon sent the Free Folk to reinforce the castle in the first place. He’d also told his daughter to make sure the Free Folk were following the Watch’s orders. “Isn’t that a lot of responsibility for someone her age?”

Tormund just looked at him strangely then. “Aye, but she’s my daughter. She will manage. Also, she’s not _that_ much younger than you and look at what you’re doing here.”

Jon winced. “Please don’t remind me that your daughter is almost grown.” Then he was sick again, Tormund faithfully holding his bucket. He supposed he wouldn’t hear the end of that later, but he was thankful he was there and not mocking him now. The mocking would come soon enough. As he was throwing up, Jon decided he _really_ didn’t like the sea.

 

The knock was curt and Daenerys had already entered by the time Jon and Tormund looked up. They had settled into a sort of rhythm in the last two days, Tormund only leaving to get food or making excuses to Daenerys as to why she couldn’t see Jon just yet. It seemed she had finally run out of patience.

Tormund narrowed his eyes at Daenerys disapprovingly. “I’ve learned a lot of things since coming south. That includes that when one knocks, one usually waits to be called in.”

“I need to talk to Jon Snow. _Alone_ ,” she said, not even acknowledging his words. She looked at Tormund, clearly expecting him to leave. For someone so short, she knew how to make the most out of her presence in a room. Jon envied her that skill, just a little.

“I’m not here for you, I’m here for him.” He put down his hand on the bed, next to Jon’s. It’s all he could do at the moment and Jon felt frustration bubbling up in his chest again.

“Go on, I can talk to her by myself,” Jon told him, taking his hand and squeezing it once. “I’ll be fine.”

Tormund grumbled, the tone low in his chest, but he _did_ leave, even though he shot Daenerys a very angry look, as he passed her. He left the door ajar, clearly out of spite. She looked after him and closed the door with an irritated expression on her face. “Your … friend is hard to get rid of.”

Jon suppressed a chuckle, if only because he feared that everything would start hurting again if he laughed.

Daenerys sat down at the edge of his bed. Right. Jon had eyes and he knew how to use them. He knew that Daenerys Targaryen was beautiful and that she probably didn’t think him unattractive either. At the same time, she scared the living shit out of him. He would have to tread carefully.

So, he settled for an apology. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Daenerys shook her head, but Jon took her hand. It almost looked like she was suppressing tears.

“I wish I could take it back. I wish we’d never gone.”

Daenerys shook her head again, her expression still unreadable. “I don’t. If we hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have seen. You have to see it to know,” she replied, before shaking her head a third time, which then turned into a nod. “Now I know. The dragons are my children. They’re the only children I’ll ever have. Do you understand?”

Jon did. It was personal for her now, too. In a way, it was exactly what he had wanted. He just wished it hadn’t taken them losing one of their most valuable weapons.

“We are going to destroy the Night King and his army. And we’ll do it together. You have my word.”

But at what cost? Jon swallowed, hard. She did sound earnest enough, but how far would she go for revenge? He wished he could focus on just that, for now, but Sansa had taught him to think of the bigger picture, to think of a future beyond killing the Night King, as hard as it was to imagine now. “Thank you, Dany.”

“Dany?” She chuckled. An actual laugh, before her expression darkened significantly. “Who was the last person who called me that? I’m not sure. Was it my brother? Not the company you want to keep.”

“Alright. Not Dany,” he agreed, then took a deep breath. He would do what needed to be done. The Night King had proven he could kill a dragon, but she still was their best chance. If that meant accepting her terms – for now – he would. “How about _my queen_?”

She looked at him mutely, so he barrelled on. “I’d, ah, bend the knee, but.”

“What about those who swore allegiance to you?”

 “They’ll all come to see you for what you are.” Someone who could talk about burning people alive so callously and then _doing_ it – it brought to mind all the stories he had heard growing up, about her father murdering his grandfather and uncle. And _her father_ didn’t have dragons.

That she used them to help them – for the moment – was beside the point. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that if they won against the Night King, she could just as soon turn them against them if it suited her. On the other hand, she seemed genuinely interested in helping people. She just had a messed up way of achieving her ends and that was the thing that he truly feared. He couldn’t figure her out, he didn’t know how someone could reconcile burning people alive with helping people. He wished Sansa were here, to help him make some sense of her. Maybe he had bought them enough time for her to fix things.

Daenerys took a breath and clasped his hand with hers. She felt warm to the touch, warmer than Tormund, perhaps. Was it true, what they said about Targaryens? That they were more than human, did they have fire in their veins? Or was this, too, just another different circumstance the Red Woman had brought on him? She caressed his hand with her thumb, just looking at him, with a hopeful look. She looked near tears. Jon pulled away.

“I … can’t. I’m sorry. There is another.”

Daenerys snatched her hand away, as if stung. A look of hurt crossed her face, which she then schooled into calmness again quickly. “You should get some rest.” Her voice sounded almost calm once she spoke. Almost.

Jon didn’t reply, just closed his eyes and waited until she had left the room to open them again. He is in the middle of taking a breath until Tormund comes rushing in again.

“Good. Still alive,” he said, letting out a breath, sitting down at his bedside in almost exactly the same spot Daenerys had occupied. “The Dragon Woman looked about ready to murder somebody.”

“I’m afraid that might be my fault.”

“Of course it is. She was ready to jump your bones.” Tormund shifted his weight just a little towards Jon. “Speaking about jumping your bones.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Jon admitted, while trying to get into more comfortable position.

“I’ll be _real_ careful,” Tormund promised, purring, tracing the unscarred lines of Jon’s body with his fingers. “Treat you like a maid, I will.”

Jon snorted. “Right.”

 

Luckily, Tormund had agreed to not come into the meeting at the Dragonpit with them. He had got one whiff of King’s Landing and decided to listen to Jon for once in his life. “What is that smell? That’s much worse than pig shit.”

“Civilisation,” Davos had replied drily, and Tormund had vanished below deck, muttering to himself about stupid Southerners. Jon couldn’t really disagree with him.

 

Once it was done, Jon returned to his quarters on board feeling completely exhausted, mentally and physically. A dull throb was pressing against his temples, feeling like it was about turn into a major headache. Tormund had his hands all over him before the door was even fully closed. After Jon had bent the knee to Daenerys, he had given up any sort of pretence, as far as him and Tormund were concerned. It was freeing and despite everything, he felt better than he had in a lifetime.

Tormund’s fingers clutched Jon’s fur-covered shoulders. “I know I told you to dress warmly, but that meant dressing appropriately for the weather. You must have looked like a lunatic in all that fur down here.”

“First you tell me I need to do one thing and then another, it’s very hard to keep up. I almost died of hypothermia, you know.” Jon did shrug off the heavy coat though, even though it comforted him, in a way. Sansa had made it, and it was a reminder of who he was, and of home, what he was fighting for, once all was said and done. Cersei Lannister and Euron Greyjoy and their petty squabbles could hang.

“Not. Funny,” Tormund grunted his reply, digging his fingers into Jon’s shoulders again and started kneading. “You’re too tense. More than usual, I mean. Let me take care of you.” Jon let out a very undignified sound, somewhere between a moan and a groan. Tormund chuckled, breath hot against his ear. “Like that, do you?”

A shiver ran down Jon’s spine.

“So, was all this trouble worth it?” Tormund asked quietly, massaging his shoulders. There was way too much popping, but it did feel good. Jon closed his eyes and exhaled, slowly, before answering.

“I don’t know. Cersei said she’d help, but. Well. Sansa did say she lies, so who knows.”

“So, what exactly was the point of this whole trip then?”

“To make them all see. Maybe she will surprise us and be the bigger person, but I won’t count on it. Let’s hope against hope Theon manages to free his sister and rally at least some of the Iron Islanders, otherwise it doesn’t look good. His uncle … Well.” Another knot in his shoulder popped under Tormund’s fingers. “Gods. Can we not talk about it? Just for a while?”

“Sure,” Tormund agreed amicably and patted him on the back. “Lie down, I’m guessing you’re just as tense everywhere else.”

Jon chuckled. “Are you trying to get me naked?”

“Do I have to _try_?”

Jon was already taking off his remaining layers. “Not very hard, apparently.”

 

Tormund pushed Jon off of him, huffing. “That was different.”

Jon let himself be moved to the other side of the bed. Every bone in his body felt like jelly, a good sort of boneless. “You’re disgusting,” he replied without any malice behind the words. “But I meant what I said, before everything went to shit.”

Tormund smiled widely, as though he’d just given him the best compliment ever and pulled him closer. “I don’t think we’ve known a ‘before everything went to shit.’”

“You’ll have to go back to Eastwatch,” Jon mumbled into Tormund’s hair. He didn’t want to send him away again, but he didn’t know trust the Night’s Watch and the Free Folk to cooperate with someone he fully trusted there. Tormund would be more useful up at the Wall, as much as it hurt.

Tormund sounded already halfway to sleep when he replied, “On the condition you make good on that promise before ‘everything went to shit,’” he put on a halfway decent impression of Jon. Jon tried to elbow him but felt too exhausted to. “I’ll fucking marry you, King Crow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to have actually explicit boat sex but I’ve been trying to write (and subsequently deleting) it for the past two weeks, so it obviously wasn’t happening, so I hope the ridiculous fluff is at least okay.  
> Look, the original title of this was “I’m on a boat! in the middle of the fucking sea, IDK this timeline is full of plotholes” so I don’t know what to tell you, except if D&D can have everyone travel at the speed of light, I can shuffle their plot around, too.  
> And the epilogue is coming next week! Trust me to finish the very last thing before everything else.


	5. Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa receives a raven. She mad.

Sansa crumpled the slip of parchment in her fist and leaned back in her chair. “Why is he such an idiot?” she asked no one in particular.

“Is it Jon?” Arya guessed.

Sansa nodded mutely.

Arya held out her hand. “Let me see.”

Sansa handed Arya the parchment, who carefully unfurled it again. Her brows furrowed as she read. “He’s got to be fucking her,” she said after she had finished, crumpling the parchment herself.

Sansa was halfway through chastising her for her language before she realised that was the least of their problems. “I’m fairly certain he’s not.”

“How can you know? You don’t know. Why else would he give up our independence again to some other queen?”

Sansa was too tired to argue, so instead she just came out with it. Were it any other person, she would make something up to keep Jon’s secret, but this was _Arya_ , who had always been his favourite. “I know because his lover is at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Jon sent some wildlings there to support the Night’s Watch.” It sounded ridiculous, even coming out of her own mouth, even knowing what she did. Wildlings supporting the Watch, who had served to keep wildlings out of the Seven Kingdoms for hundreds of years.

“His lover,” Arya repeated.

“Yes.”

“His lover that you know about.”

“Yes.”

“Things really have changed between you two.”

“He didn’t _tell_ me. I saw them together after the battle with Ramsay and just _knew_. The way he was caring for Jon … I knew.”

“His lover that you know about, who is a man,” Arya repeated, sounding even more incredulous.

“Gods, Arya. Yes.”

“I’ve just come to terms with you actually liking Jon, now you want me to believe you’re alright with this? Mother would disapprove.”

“ _Mother_ would disapprove of many things we _all_ have done. Jon deserves happiness and it’s not my place to judge him.”

“Who _are_ you? Sansa Stark, telling me it’s not her place to judge _Jon Snow_.” Arya seemed to put as much venom into Jon’s name as Sansa had when she was younger.

They both had almost forgotten Bran was sitting by the fire until he spoke, in that eerie monotone of his: “Jon has done what he feels he must do. Not all is as it seems. Hear him out when he gets back.”

They both sobered, minds back at the problem at hand. “But what do we tell our bannermen in the meantime?”

“We don’t have to tell them,” Arya suggested.

“Yes, we do. If the news comes from us, we can control their reaction. If they learn it in another way, we are helpless.”

 

The Great Hall was pandemonium, but Lady Mormont’s voice rang out above the rest. “Perhaps it is time for a Queen in the North.”

Lord Manderly turned on her, eyes wild. “We will not follow the Targaryen woman.”

The girl regarded him coolly. “I am not referring to the Targaryen woman. There are two Starks, right here, in this very hall.” She nodded towards Sansa and Arya, Sansa sat at the High Table, Arya standing at her side, with a relaxed stance, hands behind her back, daggers strapped to her belt. Bran had retreated to the godswood, reminding them that his presence would only weaken their position in supporting Jon, that he had no interest in giving the assembled lords ideas of raising _him_ as king. Lyanna Mormont continued, “One we’ve overlooked when we crowned the White Wolf, perhaps unfairly.” Her eyes locked with Sansa’s. “One who already rules.”

Sansa felt all eyes on her, heard rumbles of assent, Arya’s eyes almost burned into her neck. “ _No_.” The word came out almost as a gasp. She cleared her throat, before she spoke again. “We will hear Jon out. He hasn’t led us wrong so far.”

“What if the Targaryen woman seduced him into kneeling?” That was Lord Royce. She should have expected dissent from the Vale lords.

A voice came from the crowd, its origin impossible to discern. “Doubtful. He’s a sword-swallower.”

Sansa’s cheeks burned. They had been so careful and it seemed to have been for naught. But had they really? Tormund had regularly spent the night in Jon’s rooms after all. “I don’t see how that matters,” she said, trying to remain calm. Arya balled her fist at her side.

Several voices grew louder. “Why would we want an invert bastard as king anyway?” “Yeah, he’s a double invert,” someone sniggered, obviously thinking himself very clever. “Means he won’t continue the Stark name.”

“He can’t do that anyway, since, as was already pointed out, he’s a bastard,” Sansa interrupted the clamouring. “And let’s not kid ourselves, many _sword-swallowers_ ,” she glared in the general direction the insult had come from, “have continued their family names. We are Northerners and we follow the Old Gods, and the Old Gods don’t care who a man beds.” She briefly turned to Lord Manderly and the lords of the Vale and shook her head. “I can’t speak for your gods, who were also my mother’s, but what I can do is this. _I_ _can_ and _will_ continue the Stark name. I will _not_ usurp our King, however. We have chosen him and we will trust him, not desert him at the first opportunity.”

 

“You handled that well,” Arya said, when they were back in her own chambers. She almost sounded impressed.

Sansa sunk into a chair by the hearth. “I will have to marry again.” She covered her face with her hands and leaned back. “I can’t believe I said that.”

“I can’t imagine you alone for the rest of your life and I can’t imagine you getting married against your will again,” Arya pointed out, trying to sound kind, in her own way.

“I’m an _invert_ , too.” She spit the word. She knew it wasn’t the word used for women, but it got the point across.

Arya looked at her, then laughed, a full-throated, honest-to-goodness laugh. “Perfect Sansa.”

“Shut up, it’s not funny.”

Arya sobered. “I’m sorry.” She sounded genuine, then looked up at Sansa. “So you meant what you said?”

“What did I say?”

“You called the Seven our mother’s gods. We were raised with both.”

“The Old Gods gave me comfort when I thought I would die in the South.”

Arya sat down. “Now that I’ve started apologising, I don’t think I can stop. I always resented you for going to Joffrey so eagerly. For taking his side with Mycah. I never understood why you acted the way you did. But I couldn’t have survived what you did.”

“For what it’s worth. I’m sorry for taking Joffrey’s side. Cersei’s.” Sansa took another breath. “We never should have left home. None of us. Father and Mother, and Robb and Rickon might still be alive.”

“No, we shouldn’t have, but we can’t change the past.” Arya agreed. “What do we do about the Targaryen queen?”

Sansa smiled, as innocently as she could. “I start sewing new banners.”

Arya looked at her, question writ large on her face.

“Winterfell is the seat of House Stark and the King in the North, who is _of_ House Stark, but doesn’t bear our name. It’s time Winterfell reflected that. It’s time for the White Wolf to get his own banner.” She reached for the white thread. “She will know the North doesn’t bend the knee _that_ easily.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’ve got a doc titled “Jonmund’s big fat gay wedding” that was supposed to be part of a bigger thing that’s Jon/Tormund and Sansa/Daenerys, but let’s face it, it’s completely unlikely I’ll even get it close to finished before Winds of Winter, let alone S8, defeating the whole purpose of it. But I do rather like it, so I’d post it pretty much immediately without removing any references to the bigger thing – mostly the reason why I changed Jon’s How To Train Your Dragon moment to Rhaegal, but that’s not exactly original, so ya know, and basically everyone being in Winterfell to gear up for The Finale – would that be cool?
> 
> Anyway, thanks to everyone for bearing with me and my less than regular schedule and enjoying my self-indulgence! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song [A Toast To You](https://open.spotify.com/track/2ClqYdiTmF1Quy09wZSjpA?si=2Fgs_Cw5SJWryfzDl-ObpA) by Pagan Fury.
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)  
> This has been the first longer thing I have written in at least ten years and the first long(ish) fic in English, so comments and constructive criticism are still very appreciated.


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